


i don’t wanna be your friend (i wanna kiss your neck)

by Paragraphss



Series: Stark and Lannister [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom Jaime Lannister, Hand Jobs, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 12:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19062460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paragraphss/pseuds/Paragraphss
Summary: You fuck him like it’s his first time, and maybe it is. You don’t ask. He talks about ravens as you take off his shirt.(Jaime Lannister rides to Winterfell. Brandon Stark waits for him.)





	i don’t wanna be your friend (i wanna kiss your neck)

You didn’t mean to end up here.

You don’t know how you ended up here, not really. You don’t know exactly where here was, either - here in the north, here in winterfell, here in bed with someone else? The meaning escapes you. 

Cersei would kill you if she saw. Cersei will kill you when she discovers you’re gone. She probably already knows. You find you don’t care too much.

The first time you had left her, she told you that you took to long to come back. Once upon a time, those words would’ve ruined you. But you are a new man, now. The memory doesn’t sting.

Maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe you’re forgetting her - moving on. A part of you hopes you aren’t. You hope that you are still in love, and you still have a purpose. But deep down, buried under all the guilt and the bravo and the sarcasm, you know that you don’t. Love her, that is. You stopped loving her a while ago.

You can’t pinpoint the date. You find that you don’t want to.

When you first arrived in winterfell, you felt out of place. You still do, but not to a great extent; the people there have bigger worries, like the coming war, and the food shortage, and the safety of their lords and ladies. They don’t have time to worry about a stranger with a golden hand and a tainted last name. Apparently, neither does your bed-mate. You thought he’d resent you, and that he’d order your swift return to Kings Landing. You wished he had. It would make things a lot easier.

‘Waiting for an old friend,’ he had said. Those words had turned your spine to ice. He knew it. He stared at you and you could feel something inside of you, cold and prickling. His eyes had always made you uncomfortable, even before he detached himself from the name Bran; they were too big, too curious. Now they are cold, dead. He is someone else now.

Yet you warm his bed, and his eyes watch you with that same muted curiosity you saw in the window of a broken tower.

You fuck him like he is Cersei. (It’s nothing like fucking Cersei - with Cersei, you are rough, careless, you like to hear her whimper. With Brandon Stark, you take your time, listen to his sharp intakes of breath. Focus on what he likes and what he doesn’t. You can pretend you’re fucking Cersei, but you know exactly who you’re kissing and you are enjoying it).

You fuck him like it’s his first time, and maybe it is. You don’t ask. He talks about ravens as you take off his shirt. You wonder if anyone has ever taken the time to really appreciate how Bran had grown up; he was lean, and his arms were circled with muscle. Not much, but enough to give him definition. His stomach was flat, smooth. His skin was milky white. His face had aged since you last saw him, all sunken and hollow. His cheekbones were sharp, and the slant of his nose was a pleasing curve. He had grown up handsome. You doubt anyone took the time to notice.

You slide between his legs like you are meant to be there, like you were made to slip between his thighs and sink down upon him. His eyes are shut and his chest rises and falls viciously. You wonder if it’s painful. You grab his thigh to pull yourself higher, so your parallel with his body.

He talks about how he can’t feel anything below his waist.

You don’t really listen. You don’t reply. You mouth kisses up his chest instead, and feel a surge of pride when he let out a breathless sigh. He wasn’t loud, when you touched him. He told you outright when something didn’t get him going, and he sighed and whined quietly when you hit the spot. It was dark out, and the only sound was the occasional bird and the dying fire, so you had all the time in the world. You took it slow. It’s nothing like fucking Cersei.

You press a kiss to his throat, and then to his clavicle, and then to the patch of skin behind his ear. His upper-body twitches beneath you. You bring your good hand up, and run it up his side, feeling as he shudders under your touch. Your golden hand is on the floor. Your shirt is with it, somewhere.

You lift yourself up, and his eyes follow you, and you notice that they’ve lost their cold edge. Maybe Brandon Stark is still in there somewhere, lying underneath raven feathers and a thousand eyes. You don’t worry about it too much. Those eyes remind you of the boy he used to be, the boy you pushed out of a tower, the boy you crippled to hide a secret that everybody already knew.

You started a war because you were fucking your sister. (Men have started wars for less).

He doesn’t look at you with resentment. He doesn’t look at you with disgust. He looks at you with simmering lust, and confusion, and you kiss him, so you don’t have to stare into his eyes anymore.

You get your good hand under the furs, and he doesn’t last much longer after that. His breaths get quicker and then your hand is warm and he closes his eyes and holds his breath. You stroke him a few more times, guiding him through the aftershocks, and then you collapse on the bed next to him. You wipe your hand on the furs. He turns his head towards you. You resist the urge to brush away a strand of hair that sticks to his forehead.

“Fuck me.” he says, and you nod, and stand up. You help him roll onto his front, let him settle himself on the pillows. He’s already bare and you don’t take long to pull down your breeches. Sansa is next door, you think idly. You’re glad Bran is quiet. Sansa wouldn’t be kind if she found you here, balls deep in her crippled brother- the brother you threw from a tower all those years ago.

You push in hesitantly, careful enough that it doesn’t hurt, and you swear he almost moans. He catches himself before he does. 

Bran harbours no resentment towards you. You fuck him slow, with your head pressed against his back, and you whisper against the skin of his shoulder blade until your on the cusp of finishing. You go to pull out when he holds your wrist, the one that’s gripping the sheets tight. He shakes his head, and you understand, so you start thrusting again, and you bite down on his neck when you finish. He whimpers slightly as he comes again.

He doesn’t tell you to leave. It’s not like fucking Cersei. She’d have banished you by now.

“I don’t love her, anymore,” you tell the boy (no, he’s a man now), and he nods, like he knows, like he knew you were going to tell him and he was just waiting for it.

Of course he knew. The ravens told him. You smile at the thought.

He lets you sleep beside him. He folds up in your arms easily, easier than she ever did. The beds in the North are comfortable, swathed in furs and blankets. Brandon Stark murmurs something against your sun-kissed collarbone, but you’re already asleep.


End file.
